


Every Little Fracture

by Elsie_Snuffin



Category: NCIS
Genre: Better Than Canon, F/M, Keeping the ship alive
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-06
Updated: 2016-10-24
Packaged: 2018-07-21 23:03:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7408717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elsie_Snuffin/pseuds/Elsie_Snuffin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Through the chaos that is the universe, two people can collide. All the times Tony and Ziva could have started a relationship, changing the course of their lives. Canon into AU, spoilers for the entire series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, readers! For this story, each chapter will be a new story involving a scene from an episode that I think could have led to Ziva and Tony starting a relationship. Thus, it will start in canon and then go AU. Each chapter lives in its own universe. Do not expect it to be chronological (if you have read any of my previous stories, you know how I like to jump back and forth). Each chapter will be named with the corresponding episode's title.
> 
> I will be working on this series and Colour Me In at the same time.
> 
> Disclaimer: Not my characters, I don't own NCIS, etc. Borrowing some dialogue from various episodes.

Nothing is inevitable. When two people meet and instantly feel chemistry between them, there may be many factors that keep them from acting on that chemistry. Circumstance, obligations, rules, fear, and on and on. All of this can lead to unspoken feelings, missed opportunities, misunderstandings. Maybe they move on and, at the end of their lives, feel fulfilled. Or maybe they look back with regret. 

But maybe they shoulder past all of those factors, all of the excuses, and they act on the chemistry, on their feelings. Maybe it is brave of them, irresponsible, selfish. Maybe they fumble, make mistakes. They are human, as we all are. Who are we to judge?

Through the chaos that is the universe, two people can collide. Whether they create a new solar system or a black hole is up to them. Opportunities may abound but unless at least one of them grabs one, they all dissolve into nothingness, never to reappear. 

It is up to them, up to ourselves, to make connections that matter, to act on opportunity, to live without regret. Our destiny is our own to be written, and whether we follow rules, real or perceived, is our decision. In the end, we have no one to blame but ourselves.  


Maybe each decision we make fractures the universe just a little, creates infinite alternate universes where we live with the consequences of our actions and inactions. 


	2. Recoil

“You talk and I’ll listen.”

“I don’t want a drink.”

“Okay,” he says, then pauses, considers making an inappropriate joke about how they could do something else, maybe something a little more physical. Then he decides that he values his life too much. Instead, he tries one more time. “One drink. I’ll talk, you listen.”

“Tony!” She is exasperated at his insistence. “No.” She doesn’t need him to snap her out of her head space. As she kept repeating to everyone, she is fine. If she says it enough times, maybe she can will it to be true. Before he can open his mouth to say anything else, she grabs her stuff and stalks away. She doesn’t bother to wait for the elevator. The last thing she wants is to be stuck in an elevator with him and his eyes that seem to see right through her defenses. Instead, she fairly flies down the stairs and out to her car.

She doesn’t look back to see if he is chasing her, but when she doesn’t see him in her rear view mirror, she refuses to acknowledge the disappointment that bubbles up from her core.

~

She drives to the same bar she had been frequenting for this case, thinking that he will not look for her here, at this place where she went undercover to catch a serial killer. Before she can order a drink at the bar, the bartender she befriended, Heidi, sits a mojito in front of her. “Thank you, friend,” she says with a tired smile.

Heidi smiles back and moves over to take an order. Heidi’s husband is currently deployed, and that had made her a prime target for Andy until Ziva stepped in as Gina and changed the course of his actions. As she thinks back on this, she stares at the small television behind the bar, where a woman wearing a horse face mask is rebuffing the advances of a man. _Americans are so strange._

Her thoughts are interrupted by a man’s voice. “Let me buy you the next one?” It is not the man she expected, but Michael Locke, one of the men to whom she had spoken while undercover. They talk, flirting a bit. He is handsome, tall and dark haired. He is searching for his ex-girlfriend, who dumped him and then disappeared, so Ziva figures it is safe to flirt with him. He describes her. “Smart. Funny. Terrible sense of direction. Drives you insane with her incessant movie references. Worries about others more than herself. Generous to a fault.”

This sounds like someone she knows, someone she is trying to avoid yet for whom she is waiting. As if he hears her thoughts, she hears footsteps behind her and a familiar voice say cheerfully, “Hey, sweet cheeks. I’m sorry I’m late.”

It is Tony, and he puts an arm around her and kisses the top of her head. It is a possessive move. She looks up at him in confusion and sees him staring pointedly at Michael. Michael raises his hands and backs away. “Hey, sorry, I didn’t know she’s attached,” he says. He gives her a rueful smile and walks away.

Tony takes the newly vacated seat next to her, grinning. Smugly, she thinks. She sets her jaw and glares at him.

“I went to your apartment first, but you weren’t home. So then I went to the bar near the office but of course you wouldn’t be there. This is the second bar I checked,” he says by way of explanation, the concern in his eyes belying his light tone of voice.

After a long moment where she contemplates what to say, she says in a flat voice, “I told you that I did not want a drink, Tony.” He smirks and gestures at the half empty glass in front of her. “I did not want a drink with _you_ ,” she clarifies, hoping to hurt his feelings so he will go away.

His cheeky grin doesn’t waver although she sees something flicker in his eyes. “Well, you know me,” he says. “I can never take a hint.” He looks away from her finally to catch Heidi’s attention and Ziva feels like she can breathe again.

Before Heidi can make her way over to him, Ziva hisses at him, “I will give you more than a hint then,” drops some money on the bar to pay for her drinks, and stalks out before he can say anything in response.

This time, he does chase after her. He catches up and grabs her arm just as she reaches her car. “What do you want, Tony?” she snaps at him.

He stands his ground, accustomed to her anger, sometimes even provoking it for sport. Now though, he is not doing it for fun. He is genuinely concerned for her, and he tells her that, dropping the faux-cheery tone for a serious one.

“Why?” she demands, trying ineffectively to pull her arm from his grip. “I am _fine_.”

He chuckles mirthlessly, piercing her with a dark look. “You’re not fine,” he says bluntly.

Her eyes narrow. “Oh? And you’re an expert in how I feel now?” she spits out.

“You’re not exactly hiding how not fine you are,” he replies, his voice almost a growl. He does not let go of her arm. Instead, he steps closer to her so she can smell the mint on his breath.

“Let me go,” she says through clenched jaw. Contrarian that he is, he holds on to her tighter instead. Tears threaten to fall and she struggles against him. She does not want to cry in front of him. She will not break.

Except in his proximity, her emotions are heightened and there is nothing that she can do to change that. A whimper breaks through her clenched jaw and all the fight goes out of her. She falls limp against him and cries.

He says nothing, just holds her as she sobs into his starched button down, steady and warm and understanding. A pillar of strength.

After an indeterminate amount of time, the tears finally stop and she finds that she does not need to lean against him in order to keep standing anymore. She takes half a step away from him, just enough so she can look up at his face without breaking their embrace. He is looking down at her with a look so intense that it almost makes her flinch. Instead, she sniffles and asks, “Why did you come after me?”

He doesn’t answer at first, just flits his eyes across her face, looking for something, the correct answer to her question maybe. After a long pause, he responds, “Because I wanted to make sure you’re alright.”

She shakes her head at him. “But you already knew I was not. So why?”

“Because,” he replies. She is about to tell him that _because_ is not an answer, when he continues. “Because I didn’t want you to be alone when you broke down.”

It is not a sentiment that she is used to hearing, not so plainly. The men in her life, past and present, do not give voice to their emotions. Emotions are vulnerabilities. Yet here is her partner, staring down at her, still holding on to her. “Because we are partners, yes?” She asks because she is looking for affirmation, not because she is digging to see if he feels more. Or so she tells herself.

A hint of a smile twitches on his lips, which are as soft as they look. She knows from experience, although it was more than a year ago. The memory is etched into her subconscious. “Yes,” he says, but then adds before her heart can sink, “But also because I care about you. You know, the way Rick cared about Ilsa in Casablanca. Not in the tragic way where I’m going to make you go back to your husband but in the ‘I’ll do anything for you even help out your husband-’.”

She stops his rambling in the only way that seems appropriate in the moment, by breaching the gap between them and pressing her lips to his. He responds after a second, moving his lips against hers, seeking her tongue with his. They kiss with the familiarity of a couple who do this on a regular basis and she has the overwhelming sense that this is just what they should have done years ago, before this mission and before Jeanne Benoit.

After being the first to make the move, she is the first to break the kiss. She leans back and looks up at him, a promise on her lips. They are standing next to her car in a parking lot adjacent to a bar, and the world finally feels like it is upright after being tilted wrongly on its axis, and in this moment, she can finally breathe.


	3. Judgment Day, Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, thank you for the kudos and comments! It really helps me stay motivated to keep writing. 
> 
> Secondly, a warning - this chapter is rated M. As in Mature. As in I WROTE SOME SMUT. It is not graphic but it's there and there is clear sexy time. If you're not into that sort of thing, please skip this chapter.
> 
> Thirdly, I am super nervous about this chapter because there are so many post-Judgment Day fics and I've read some of them and they are GOOD. I wanted to be sure I take a different approach, which hopefully I did. This chapter is much longer than the previous one. I meant for these to be more drabblish than anything but then the smut happened and all of a sudden, I was past 4,000 words. Not all of them will be this long or be tied up so nicely with a bow.
> 
> Fourthly, enjoy!!

_You’re going back home._

How can she go back home when she is already there? That was the first thought in her mind. The second was that she did not want to go back to Israel. She just lost a friend, a good one. She would like to grieve properly, amongst her friends.

She is angry with the new NCIS director, but she is angrier with her father, because she knows he is friendly with this Leon Vance, and if her father wanted her to continue on with the liaison position, it would have happened. Her father has a plan for her, and she knows it involves estranging her from her American teammates. There was a hint of it the last time she was in Israel. Michael Rivkin, her former partner, was trying too hard to flirt with her, and it was impossible to ignore the look on her father’s face whenever she mentioned NCIS, Gibbs, Tony, or anyone else in the US. She knows Rivkin is fully in her father's pocket, and she knows how Eli David thinks women can be controlled.

Although she is not leaving for another two days, she begins packing. She knows someone from the embassy would be by to pack up her things and ship them to Israel, but she needs to pack clothes. Without a doubt, her father will have her back in the field within an hour of her plane landing, probably with Rivkin as her partner. He is good looking, to be sure, but she would never be able to trust him, not with her father in his ear. No matter how often her father throws him at her, no matter how charming he is, she will not fall for it.

In any case, she is prepared for the charm. After all, she worked alongside Tony DiNozzo for three years. She is immune to charming men now. Or so she tells herself as she aggressively shoves underwear and socks into a suitcase.

A knock at her door startles her from thoughts of exactly what she would like to tell her father when she sees him in a couple of days. It is almost midnight. There is really only one person who would come to her apartment at this hour.

She opens the door and sure enough, there he is. He has a bottle of vodka in one hand and his shirt is unbuttoned and untucked, revealing a white cotton shirt underneath. “Ahoy matey,” he says in greeting, his voice laced with sarcasm and alcohol.

Without replying, she opens the door wider and he steps in, goes straight to her kitchen, familiar with her apartment from the summer he was team leader. She closes the door quietly behind her and leans against it, watching him, assessing the level of his drunkenness. She did not get a whiff of alcohol as he passed her, so he is not swimming in the bottle, or whatever the American phrase is. He locates her glasses quickly and deftly pours two fingers’ worth of vodka in each glass. She continues to watch him as he walks back over to her, hands her a glass. He walks steadily, so she wonders if he is really anything more than buzzed.

She takes a tiny sip of the vodka. He splurged and bought an expensive bottle, so it goes down like velvet. He sits on her couch and gestures for her to join him. She does, settling on the other end of the couch, facing him but as far away as she can be while still sharing a seat with him. Her ninja senses, as he calls them, detects danger, although she cannot decipher of what kind.

“You plan on saying anything or has this plot twist left you speechless?” he drawls, clearly as much on edge as he has been the last few days.

“How much have you had to drink?” she asks bluntly.

He shrugs and gives her his best fake grin. “Just celebrating my good luck,” he says, sarcasm evident. “Got tired of drinking alone. Figured you're just as thrilled at being sent back to daddy.”

She smirks and takes a bigger sip, enjoying the way the liquid warms her without burning. “Oh yes,” she replies, mimicking his sarcastic tone. “I cannot wait to see what he has planned for me next.”

“Kill one of his enemies for him, for sure. Or he'll be brainwashing the American out of your head. Or both.”

“Oh yes. He plans on brainwashing me by throwing my former partner at me. As if an Israeli man will remind me that my loyalty should belong only to my father.” She rolls her eyes as she says this, but then monitors his reaction carefully, hoping to see jealousy.

She is not disappointed. He frowns. “Wait, your father is going to throw a man at you to remind you to be loyal to _him_? That's twisted.”

She shrugs. “How else do you think he became head of Mossad?” She takes another sip of the vodka. He downs his glass in one go.

He gazes at her with his brow slightly furrowed, as if she is a puzzle he is trying to piece together. She is overcome with the notion that she is going to miss this, the way he looks at her, the way he keeps up with the banter, the way he counters her arguments as if he is afraid of her but just can't help himself.

After a minute, his mouth quirks into a smile that seems more genuine than sarcastic. “You know what would really piss daddy off? If you arrived back in Israel with an American boyfriend.”

She huffs out a quick laugh. It sounds like something Tali, her boy-crazy little sister, forever 16, would have done. “Yes. But where am I to find a boyfriend when I leave in two days?”

She says it like a joke but the smile drops off his face and he suddenly looks so serious that it makes her nervous. As usual, she realizes how loaded her hypothetical question is too late. It weighs heavily between them and the air is suddenly thick with tension and unspoken feelings.

They stare at each other from opposite ends of the couch as she thinks back to last year and how she felt when he was with Jeanne Benoit. It was more than petty jealousy. She had genuinely felt a loss for something that she never had in the first place. The feeling had confused her, and it all led to that conversation she had with Ducky in the bar the night before she thought he had died in an explosion. And then there is the drop in her stomach that occurred as she watched him die, or so she thought, and the relief when he walked into the bullpen, physically unscathed.

As these thoughts swirl in her head, he moves closer to her on the couch, subtly at first as if not to startle her. When she doesn’t move away or break eye contact, he moves even closer, until she can feel the heat radiating off his body. “We’re not coworkers anymore,” he muses, a twinkle in his eye. “Rule 12 doesn’t apply to us.”

She raises an eyebrow and thinks, _why not?_ Out loud, she replies slowly, “You are right.”

It is unclear who moves first, nor does it really matter. All she knows is that their lips meet in a rush, chemistry and years of carefully guarded feelings exploding from them, around them. _Finally finally finally_ , she thinks as she remembers the taste of his tongue on hers, the feel of his fingers tangling in her hair. The last time they did this felt like eons ago, and that time was all a ruse, an undercover mission where they merely teetered on the precipice into which they now jump.

The first time they have sex is on her couch with her straddling him. They manage to disentangle their limbs long enough to get their pants off and for him to fish a condom out of his wallet and roll it on, but shirts stay on. She rides him hard and fast, needing more more more until she feels herself falling and she clings to him, gasping. He follows her over the cliff shortly after, breathing out her name almost with reverence.

After, they sit, slumped against each other, still craving contact with each other as they catch their breath. He laces his fingers through hers, squeezes her hand. “For the record,” he says, “this was not how I imagined this happening.”

She chuckles. “You have thought of this moment a lot, yes?” He isn't the only one.

“Oh yeah,” he smirks back. “I always thought it would be more of a slow burn.”

“Hm,” she says, pursing her lips and considering. “I do not think I would like to be burned during sex.”

She knows what he means, but she says it to make him laugh. It feels like weeks since she heard his laughter. He huffs out a laugh. “I didn't mean literally, Zee-vah,” he responds, drawing out her name in the way that used to annoy her. His voice is filled with affection. “I meant that we would go slow, tease each other, see who begged first.”

This is how she envisioned it as well, and she hums her agreement. “It would be you,” she says confidently.

He laughs again, music to her ears. “Maybe.” They are silent for a moment, listening to each other breathe. “You know, my flight doesn't leave until the afternoon,” he says suggestively. “We have plenty of time to find out.”

She is wrong. She begs first and he grins at her until she moves her hips just right and wipes the grin off his face.

~

After their hunger is finally sated, at least for the time being, they lay on her bed, him on his back, her curled up against him, and they talk. The conversation starts playfully, discussing Gibbs’ new team members and how much he is going to hate them merely because they were not hand picked by him. They laugh about what the newbies’ first day will be like, and abruptly, he says, “We wasted so much time.”

The quick pivot in conversation confuses her and she cranes her neck to look up at him with her brow furrowed. “We should have done this years ago. I never made a move, and now we only have hours left together before I get sent afloat and you go halfway across the world. It sucks.”

She sighs and runs her hand across his bare chest. “Yes, it sucks. But we cannot change the past. And now we must think about what we are going to do.”

“We’ll keep in contact. Right?” He looks at her for confirmation and she nods, a smile playing on her lips. “Video chats, emails, phone calls. Hell, even handwritten letters, although I can barely read your chicken scribble.” With a mock frown, she lightly punches his arm and he laughs. “Oh wait, I’m the one with the bad handwriting,” he revises. “And Gibbs will get us all back on his team, anyway.”

This she does not doubt. What concerns her is what happens to them after they are back under Gibbs’ rules, and she says as much. He takes her hand, brings it to his lips to kiss it softly. “We’ll prove that Rule 12 is unnecessary,” he says confidently.

She hopes with all her heart that he is right.

~

She drives him to the airport at noon, and with a rueful smile, pulls over to the curb in the drop off area. He grabs his bag out of her backseat, and she walks around her mini to hug him. It is rare that she initiates a hug and she wonders what would happen if she refused to let him go. Forget the night of amazing sex they just had. She is acutely aware that she is losing her best friend, even if it is temporary and even if they video chat every day, which she knows will not happen as she will be often on missions.

They hold on to each other fiercely for a long moment before he leans back just enough to tip his head down and kiss her deeply. Both are acutely aware that this is the last time they will kiss in months and it is not enough, but eventually they both pull back. He slings his bag over his shoulder and heads into the airport, looking back once to wave and smile one last time. She smiles back but suddenly feels very alone.

~

The predictability of her father is almost laughable. He meets her on the runway as she disembarks from the plane and ushers her into his waiting car. Once they are inside, he hands her a file. “You leave in two hours for this mission. Michael Rivkin will be your partner.”

She peruses the documents on their drive to Mossad headquarters and nods. Rivkin, despite her father’s attempts to throw him at her feet, is a good officer. They have worked well together in the past, though she now knows that their partnership lacks the cohesion that she has with Tony.

The mission takes no more than three days, then she is back in Tel Aviv, getting used to another apartment, wondering how long before her father confronts her about Rivkin’s report that she rebuffed all his romantic overtures after the mission. She looks forward to it and dreads it at the same time. She does not need to wait long. Her father’s secretary calls her, schedules a meeting for later that afternoon.

When she arrives outside his office, designed to intimidate any foes, the secretary smiles at her and waves her through. “Hello, Abba,” she says, smiling and kissing his cheek as he rises from behind his desk to meet her. They sit with his desk between them. She thinks that they will need this barrier if the confrontation that she anticipates occurs. She sits silently, waiting for him to speak first.

He gets right to the point. “Michael informs me that you have found yourself an American boyfriend,” he starts, barely concealing his disdain.

“Did he put that in his field report?” she asks archly.

Eli David is not used to being spoken to in such a manner and he slams the palm of his hand on the desk. She does not flinch, just continues to meet his eyes, almost defiantly. “I see the time you spent with NCIS has softened you. What kind of control did Agent Gibbs have on his team?”

She chooses to ignore the dig against Gibbs and instead asks, “What is it you want, Abba?”

“Your loyalty. To me, not to NCIS and not to this American boyfriend, whoever he is. Clearly, Agent Gibbs did not keep you busy enough if you had time to go out and meet a man.”

“Actually, I met him while working,” she says, unable to hide the smallest of smiles.

Her father picks up on the look on her face and narrows his eyes at her. “Do no tell me you fell for the charms of that partner of yours, Anthony DiNozzo. The one with whom you assured Officer Bashan you were not sleeping.”

His voice has a dangerous tone to it and any other officer within Mossad would immediately cower and apologize. Not her. She is too familiar with his iron fisted control. “I did not assure him of any such thing,” she replies, although she had in fact not been sleeping with Tony at that time. Her point being that it was none of Officer Bashan’s business then and it certainly is not her father’s business now.

Eli’s jaw clenches and his nostrils flare in anger. “You will cease contact with Agent DiNozzo and focus on serving your country,” he commands.

She can barely contain her snort. “You cannot tell me what to do in my spare time,” she retorts. “I will communicate with whom I wish. I can assure you that I can serve my country and keep up a long distance relationship at the same time. I am quite adept at multi-tasking. It is a skill you taught me.”

He narrows his eyes at her but does not say anything. He stares at her for a long moment then dismisses her without another word. She walks out of his door with her head high.

~

For the next month, her father sends her on mission after mission, barely giving her time to breathe. She does everything he asks of her with her usual efficiency and accuracy, but there is a cool distance between them now. The casual observer would be even more hard pressed to know they are father and daughter.

When she has a moment, she sends Tony emails, filled with stories of going to the market and the gossip told to her by Aunt Nettie. She leaves out how much her father is making her work, how worn down she feels, how she isn’t sure how much more she can take and maybe her time with NCIS has made her soft.

He emails back, complaining about being stuck on a ship and missing going to the movies and her. Especially her. His emails both make her smile and want to cry. She feels homesick for him, for DC, for her life there.

They try to video chat once a week, although it usually means it is the middle of the night for one of them. His familiar handsome face on her computer screen grounds her, reminds her of everything good in the world. He frowns, voicing concern about how exhausted she looks. No one cared about how tired she looked when she was a field agent for her father before, and the very idea that someone out there who cares about her well-being brings tears to her eyes one evening.

“Hey,” he says softly, “Why the tears, sweet cheeks?”

The nickname that once irritated her as condescending now makes her smile. “I am not sure how much more of this I can take,” she replies honestly. It feels good to admit it out loud.

“What do you mean?”

“My father is more demanding than ever. I have been on more missions in the last month than most officers have in two months.” She hates the complaining tone she takes but she is too tired to care. Plus, Tony complains more than almost anyone else she knows, and she intrinsically knows he understands.

Tony does not have any solutions for her, not that she expected any. The only advice he offers her is to call Gibbs and beg him to put the team back together, but they both know that she will not do that. He tries to distract her, make her laugh with his impressions of some of the military men with whom he is stuck on the ship. Seeing his animated face is enough for her, really. They end their chat reluctantly, and she feels lighter hearted.

~

The next week, she is summoned again to her father’s office. She sighs before she enters and takes her seat, not bothering to greet him as _Abba_ or kiss his cheek. He has another assignment for her. This time, a solo mission to gather intel on a terrorist cell in Somalia. She narrows her eyes as she thinks back to conversations she had with other officers in the last few weeks. “Do we have enough information to go on?” she asks.

Her father’s face is stormy at her question, his dislike of her questioning his authority evident. “Yes,” he fairly spits out. “You leave tomorrow.”

She thanks him and sees herself out. He does not look at her as she leaves. Part of her mourns the loss of whatever personal relationship she had with him before, but mostly she is focused on the gnaw of doubt eating at her mind. Something about this mission feels off. She is rarely sent on solo missions, especially in Africa and when it involves gathering intel.

Later that night, she sends Tony an email, breaking protocol by telling him briefly of her next mission. She knows she sounds rather paranoid as she types _The mission should take no more than two weeks. If you do not hear from me at that time, it is possible I am in trouble. I believe my father is sending me on a suicide mission._ But she cannot ignore the feeling that this mission is different as she hits send on her email.

~

Her instincts are right. The mission is a disaster from the start. She was not given enough information, as she suspected, and so on day two, when she stumbles upon a small camp in the blinding desert, she is unprepared. She puts up as much of a fight as possible, but she is taken captive.

The next few weeks feel like years as she is tortured occasionally and mostly left in a dark, dank concrete cell that is too hot during the day and too cold at night. She does not expect her father to rescue her and she forgets her last email to Tony in the haze that accompanies captivity of this nature. Her will to live slowly drains away and death becomes an elusive friend. Beyond the veil waits Tali, her mother, even Lieutenant Roy Sanders with his bright orange beanie.

Instead of death comes rescue, in the form of Tony, Gibbs, and McGee. Tony had understood that Ziva is not prone to paranoia and took her warning to heart, sounding the alarm. Much later, he tells her about the fuss he raised on the ship, almost getting himself fired. It had worked, and Gibbs and Vance had looked into it. Eli David had stonewalled them, of course, but they were able to get enough information to know that she had been sent on a sort of suicide mission, and her NCIS family came to get her when her own blood family had forsaken her.

They bring her back to the US instead of Israel. It takes weeks for her to recover physically, and she wonders if she will ever be the same emotionally. She had been tortured before, and she knew how to withstand it as it was part of her training. But she was unprepared for weeks of torture and, more significantly, the knowledge that her father had sent her to her death for what he saw as her insubordination. This rift between them will never be repaired, she knows. She begins the process of becoming a US citizen.

Through it all, Tony is her constant. He refuses to leave her alone because that is who he is and because he cares. He holds her through nightmares and helps her prepare for the citizenship interview and test. Because she does not have her apartment in DC anymore, she moves in with Tony upon return. They tell themselves that it is temporary, only until she can find her own apartment, but after a few months, she stops looking at apartment listings and he never says anything about it.

It is impossible for anyone at NCIS to not notice the change in their relationship. Director Vance flat out refuses to assign them to the same field team. In any case, she has lost her taste for field work and she instead takes a position at NCIS in intelligence as soon as she is sworn in as a citizen. She is assigned to the Middle East and finds herself working alongside Nikki Jardine. Their relationship, once testy, quickly thaws as they work together and Tony makes fun of her for making friends with the germophobe until Ziva reminds him sweetly that she has not forgotten her assassin training.

She builds a new life that she never expected would be possible. Slowly, she sheds the darkness that once shrouded her and finds it easier to breathe. For once, she allows herself to plan for the future.

And when she accidentally discovers a ring box in one of Tony’s suit jackets as she is hanging it up one weekend months later while he is on a case, she does not panic. Instead, she smiles, keeps herself from opening it, and returns it to the inside pocket out of which it had tumbled. When he asks her two weeks later, in a quiet part of the park near their apartment, she says yes and kisses him.


	4. Truth or Consequences

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was inspired to write this by a Tumblr prompt. I don't have Tumblr myself but man, I love reading all the Tiva blogs. 
> 
> And on we go with the Somalia. A reminder that this chapter is completely separate from the last one, meaning Truth or Consequences actually happened the way it aired.

The exhaustion sets in as soon as the adrenaline stops flowing, and it finally hits him that she is alive, they are all alive, and Saleem is dead. They are somewhere over the Atlantic, and he can't keep his eyes off of her. She sits next to Gibbs in a jump seat, her head on his shoulder, eyes closed. He thinks that she sleeps through most of the flight, but sometimes she opens her eyes and stares into space with a look in her eyes that makes him want to bring Saleem back to life over and over so he can kill him again and again.

He will not complain about how tired he is. It is worth it. Ziva is alive and he can breathe again. She has been through hell and back, and he can't help but think how beautiful she is.

Gibbs silently stares at the side of the plane through the whole flight, though he occasionally ticks his sharp blue eyes toward Tony. _She needs time,_ his eyes seem to tell him.

Tony steadily meets his gaze and silently says, _I'll give her all the time she wants, Boss._ He is not going to mess things up again.

~

When the elevator opens onto the bullpen, people applaud as Gibbs and his team appear, tired but triumphant. Or at least three of the four are. Ziva looks anything but triumphant. A vaguely panicked look crosses her face the the crowd and the noise they make, like she has forgotten what applause is, and Tony wishes everyone would clear out, give her space.

Instead, Abby envelopes her into a big Abby hug and Ziva just stands there, still staring at nothing. Tony sits at his desk, the one he didn't expect to sit at again because he thought he was going to die, and continues watching her. She doesn't seem to notice.

Ducky quickly appears, takes one look at her, and quickly ushers her away so he can examine her and get her away from prying eyes. Tony doesn't see her again that day, although he is told that she is staying with Ducky until she recovers and finds a new apartment. Her old one had been blown to pieces by Mossad. Her father's agency, the one that sent her on a dangerous mission and then left her for dead. Tony hates Eli David more than he has hated anyone in his life.

In a rare move, Gibbs gives them a long weekend. Even though it is Thursday, he tells them to finish up their reports on the Somalia mission and then he’ll see them on Monday. Then he stalks out of the bullpen without another word, maybe to go check up on Ziva and Ducky, maybe to go straight to his basement, where his bourbon and boat await.

McGee leaves first, as he usually does, frowning at his screen and typing away until he nods to himself, satisfied, and goes over to the printer to pick up his field report and leave it on Gibbs’ desk. Instead of leaving without a backward glance at Tony as he usually does, he stops and says to the senior field agent, “Have a good weekend, Tony.”

Tony looks up and replies, “You too, Tim.” Friendliness is all he has right now. No snarky comment, no snazzy nickname. He is too tired, both physically and emotionally. After McGee walks out, Tony returns to his report. He types _She is alive we found her she’s back_ over and over, and then deletes it. This mission is one that he can’t really put into words, at least not in any way that satisfies him. So he writes a generic report devoid of emotion or any of the usual narrative flourishes that simultaneously earn him a chuckle and a head slap from the boss-man.

He leaves out all the things he really wants to say about this mission.

~

By Saturday afternoon, he doesn’t know what to do with himself. More than one day off work is unusual for him and it seems like he was consumed for an eternity by thoughts of leaving Tel Aviv without Ziva, wondering about her, thinking about her being dead and _no no it can’t be true_ , and planning out the mission to avenge her death. In reality, it was just weeks. But now he can’t remember what he did before. It was a lifetime ago. That Tony is not this Tony.

A baseball game plays on his tv but he wanders away soon after to take yet another shower in an attempt to wash the desert off of him. He wonders when he will stop feeling the grit of sand in his mouth and on his skin. At the same time, the sand reminds him that they found her and she is alive and safe and in the same city as him. He has never been so relieved in his life. Even if she never speaks to him again for killing her boyfriend, he is happy to know that she is breathing.

Still, the thought that she might always hate him dampens his mood and he decides that he needs to get out of his apartment, escape his head. He goes to his local movie theater and buys a ticket for whatever movie starts next. It is a romantic comedy, saccharine and not particularly funny, but he focuses on its many cliches and that gets him out of his head.

He grabs takeout from the Chinese place near his apartment on his walk back. Once home, he decides to stick with the romantic comedy genre and pops in When Harry Met Sally, with Sleepless in Seattle on deck. As he grabs a beer out of the fridge to go with his kung pao chicken, there is a knock on his door. He wonders if he made plans with someone before Somalia and forgot. It would not be the first time. His friends are used to it by now.

He swings the door open, and there she stands. He is so completely taken by surprise that all he can do is stare at her. She gazes steadily back at him for a moment but then looks away, a rare move for her. He can’t remember the last time she lost one of their staring contests. This jolts him back to reality, and he opens the door wider and lets her in without a word.

She looks around and says, “You have a nice place.” She sounds vaguely surprised and it occurs to him that this is the first time she has seen the inside of his apartment. This is both unusual and not. In the past, they spent plenty of time together outside of work, in bars, bowling with Abby, at her apartment. His apartment is his sanctuary. He rarely brings women here and never for longer than a few minutes.

“Thanks,” he replies when he realizes he has been silent for too long. He doesn’t know what else to say and for once in his life, his mind can’t even come up with anything to ramble about. So he just stands there and looks at her as her eyes flick from object to object in his apartment, taking it all in. She looks freshly scrubbed, as if she has spent hours in the shower trying to remove any trace of her captivity from her skin.

Maybe because she looks like herself again, maybe because it is finally sinking in that she is back, he remembers that he is angry with her. No, angry isn’t quite right. He is hurt. Hurt that she would think he would let jealousy cause him to kill anyone or that he went to her apartment that night looking for a fight. Hurt that she didn’t trust him after all they had been through together.

So although she clearly would like him to start talking and make it easier for her, he doesn’t. He dragged her out of the desert and now the ball is in her court. For a second, he thinks that she might leave without saying anything at all, but then he sees her steel herself and say, “I am sorry, Tony.” She takes a deep breath and continues. “I should not have said the things I said in Tel Aviv.”

His jaw clenches momentarily as he flashes back to them yelling at each other and then being knocked onto his back, the muzzle of her gun digging into his chest, the sharp pain in his shoulder. And the feeling after she walked away and he lay on his back, looking up at the cloudless Tel Aviv sky. “So why did you?” he asks.

She sighs. “Because I was angry. You were right but I did not want to trust you.”

“Why?” He needs to know, although he knows he may be pushing her too much.

“Because everyone I trusted in the past betrayed me. I could not afford to trust you.” She is speaking honestly, her face full of sadness. He wavers a little as she continues speaking. “But I should have believed you. And for that, I am sorry.”

In his sparsely but tastefully decorated living room, they stare at each other. He nods a little, gives her a half smile. A truce. However, she does not smile back. Her eyes take on an intensity as she says, “I asked you before why you were there.”

He blinks, remembers the words that slipped out thanks to the truth serum. _Couldn’t live without you, I guess._ “Yeah, and I told you.”

“But _why_ did you go searching for me? At such grave danger to yourself?”

“My answer’s still the same. I couldn’t lie then, remember?” He is baffled by what she is asking.

She sighs, agitated. “Of course you can live without me. You do not need me to breathe or for your brain to work or your heart to beat. That is not an answer.” The tone of her voice escalates into demanding. “I was ready to die. My father left me for dead and you should have, too. My life was not worth the risk.”

He scowls at her, annoyed at how little she regards herself. “Of course it is. I would do it again in a heartbeat,” he responds heatedly. “And your father is an asshole for leaving you!”

At the insult to her father, her eyes narrow but she stays focused on the crux of her question. “Why, Tony? Why did you go to Somalia?”

“Because I love you!” The words slip out before his brain can catch up to his mouth and stop him. _Well, she wants the truth and there it is._

Her mouth is hangs open, shocked at his words, and the anger visibly leaves her body. Inappropriately, a joke about catching flies in her mouth springs to mind. He is able to shut it down before he says the joke out loud. He waits for her response, determined not to say anything until she does. The ball, again, is in her court.

She closes her mouth and seems to hesitate, just a little, before walking over to him and, standing on tiptoe, brushing her lips over his lightly. His hands automatically go to her waist, pulling her in a bit closer to him. She resists a little, rocking back onto her heels. “I…” she starts, then closes her mouth. Swallows. Starts again. “I need time, Tony,” she says, softly.

His eyes search her face for any clue into what she is thinking. Her eyes still look sad, but instead of the haunted look behind them, he sees something else. Hope, he thinks, and a spark of life. And in that moment, he knows they will be okay again.


	5. Designated Target

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's what really should have happened after this episode, which has some of my favorite Tiva scenes ("Do you ever think about soulmates?"; "Nothing sticks to you"; the way she grabs his arm in the car and then doesn't let go; the look they exchange at the end). The alternate title for this series should be "And then they kiss." Thanks again for all the kudos. Please continue leaving feedback!
> 
> Disclaimer: Not mine, etc.

_Do you ever think about soulmates?_

Her question comes out of the blue. They were talking about immigrants, and he had just explained his family’s immigration experience. He asked if the caramel from his popcorn was stuck in his teeth, in that charming yet boyish way he has, and she replied with, “Nothing sticks to you.”

Before he could ask what exactly she meant by that, she sprung her question about soulmates. He hides his confusion by referencing the 70s disco song of the same name.

“You’ll never get it,” she says, sounding disappointed. He is baffled by her reaction. It was just a joke. Then she walks away, leaving him more confused still. He continues leaning against the vending machine, staring at the doorway through which she disappeared.

He knows her well enough to know that something about this case is getting to her, but he isn’t sure what it is. Maybe it is the way it keeps changing. First, they were investigating the lieutenant’s death, then the cab driver’s. Then a woman shows up, claiming that the dead cab driver is her long-lost husband, but then she says that the dead man they have in autopsy is actually not her husband and now they don’t know where he is. It’s enough to make his veteran cop head spin. Or maybe it’s just because it involves immigrants and maybe she identifies with them, even though, as he pointed out, she isn’t technically an immigrant. Or maybe it’s something else entirely that hasn’t crossed his mind.

Either way, he can’t get her question out of his head. Even though they manage to solve their case later that day and there are reports to write up afterward, he keeps thinking about soulmates and why the heck she asked in the first place. He sees her face after the woman, Sayda, tells her supposed soulmate, who had moved on after he thought her dead, that it was okay. He wants to ask her what _she_ thinks about soulmates now, but he keeps his mouth shut and walks past her.

And then he wonders why he keeps thinking about it and why she gets so far under his skin. It gives him a headache, which makes him cranky. Although he sees both Ziva and McGee shooting him looks, he keeps his eyes on his computer screen and pecks grumpily away at his keyboard, determined to finish his report and go home.

~

Once home, his mood doesn’t improve. He stalks around his apartment aimlessly, going into his kitchen then, realizing he has nothing in his fridge except milk and beer, flipping through his stash of takeout menus. Nothing sounds good and he blames Ziva and her stupid introspective questions. He goes next into his bedroom but sleep is far from an option when he is this worked up. Finally, he plops down on the floor in front of his dvd collection and looks for a movie to watch.

After five minutes, he is unable to find an acceptable movie. It dawns on him that the only thing he wants to do is complain to Ziva that this is all her fault. He grabs his keys and heads out.

~

As soon as she answers her door, he pushes his way past her and into her apartment. “Please, come in,” she says sarcastically. There is a yoga mat on the floor of her living room and she is dressed in a sports bra and shorts, her hair up in a high ponytail. He can’t keep his eyes off her bare skin and it puts him in a worse mood. Damn the ninja and her honey-colored skin that looks so damned kissable.

Now that he’s in front of her, all the angry words he had in his head during his drive over to her apartment abandon him. He stares at her, his jaw clenched, and she merely looks back at him, a puzzled yet amused look on her face. “Are you alright, Tony?” she asks.

Finally, she asks him a question he has the capacity to answer. “No,” he growls out.

She is, as usual, not put off by his tone of voice. “So what is your problem?” she asks in that direct way she has. She takes a seat on her couch and gestures for him to sit. He does not.

“Why did you ask me that question?” he asks, glaring at her.

“Which question?” she replies, looking perplexed. As if she doesn’t know what she does to him.

He gestures angrily and paces back and forth. “About soulmates. When we were at the vending machine.”

A look of realization dawns on her face. “It was just a question,” she says slowly. “Sayda said something to me when I was interviewing her and I merely wondered…”

“Did you ask because of Jeanne?” Even saying her name is still painful. For possibly the first time in his life, he thinks that maybe life as a monk wouldn’t be so bad. Then these women wouldn’t be around to complicate his life.

Her brow furrows. “No,” she responds. “I did not have an ulterior motive.”

“Hah!” His sudden burst of laughter lacks any humor and she looks a bit startled. “You always have ulterior motives, sweet cheeks.”

“I do not.” Her voice is defensive. “Can you stop moving around so much?”

He doesn’t stop moving. He can’t. “Why did you say that I’ll never get it? Or that I have to stop forcing things? When do I force things?”

“I see that conversation really annoyed you,” she says, raising an eyebrow. “And I have no idea why. I was making little talk.”

“Small talk,” he corrects automatically.

She waves her hand in dismissal. “Why did it bother you? Why is it still bothering you? The case is over.”

He ignores her question when another pops into his head. “For that matter, why did you grab my arm in the car after we talked to the professor the first time?”

“Why won't you answer my question?” she counters.

“Why won't you answer mine?” he says, pointing an accusing finger at her, knowing he is acting like a five year old and not caring.

For a long moment, they stare at each other, neither backing down. As he searches her eyes for any sign of giving in, he thinks about how their relationship is one long game of chess, full of checks, attacks, and trying to anticipate the other’s next moves. He wonders if it is as exhausting to her as it is to him. Exhausting but exhilarating, which is why he keeps playing. The only thing he cannot figure out is the endgame. They dodge the questions, make up excuses, bury the truth. He tells himself that they do what they need to do to keep working together. But, in the end, someone is going to knock over the chessboard, end the game with no clear winner.

Finally, he narrows his eyes, gives his head a slight shake. He isn’t giving in, won’t answer her questions until she answers his. But they can’t stand there, trying to stare the other down, while the world continues moving around them. Without another word, he heads toward her door.

Quick as a cat, she jumps up and steps in front of the door, blocking it. “No,” she says firmly. “You do not get to come here and accuse me of… something, I do not even know what, and then just leave without any explanation.”

He thinks about just picking her up and moving her aside, then remembers that she is a trained assassin. He sighs and offers a proverbial olive branch. “Look, I only asked those things because I was mad. I’m not anymore. Sorry I bothered you.”

Now it is her turn to narrow her eyes. “Nice try, Tony. But you are still mad and I will not let you go until you tell me _why_.” As if to punctuate her words, she puts her hands on her hips and holds her head high. Suddenly, he thinks about how beautiful she looks, fiery and stubborn.

Before his brain can catch up, he walks up to her, leans down before she can ask him what he is doing, and kisses her, hard. It is a bruising kiss, his mouth crushed against hers. She arches into him, runs her fingers through his hair. His fingers dig into her bare waist and he pushes her against the door.

His brain eventually catches up and drags him back to his senses. He ends the kiss abruptly by taking a step back. As they both struggle for breath, he manages to growl out, “This. This is why it bugged me so much.”

She counters with, “And this is why I asked those questions.” They stare at each other again, this time with the weight of their confessions and the searing kiss between them.

This time, she is the one to break the silence. “So now what?” she asks. Her voice sounds apprehensive but he thinks he detects a note of hope in there.

“I figure we have two options,” he says. “We can pretend that this never happened and go back to the way things have been. Or we can figure out a way to make this, us, work.”

She shakes her head. “I do not want to go back to the way things have been.”

He lets out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding. “Me neither,” he confesses. “So we figure out how to make this work.”

“Gibbs will be angry.” It is not an excuse but a statement.

He shrugs. “You know, I find myself not caring very much. We won’t work for him forever but I think if we ignore this thing between us, we’ll regret it forever. This won’t change our level of professionalism at work.”

At this, she chuckles. “I think some people might argue that we are not very professional.”

“My point exactly,” he says, finally allowing himself to smile in what feels like an eternity. “We’ll keep the relationship part of us out of the office. We won’t give Gibbs a reason to get mad at us. Other than the usual, that is.”

She nods and swallows. “Do you really think we can do this without killing each other?” Her voice is softer and she takes a step toward him.

He steps forward as well so he can lean down to brush her lips with his, kissing her as gently as their last kiss was forceful. “Yeah, I do,” he breathes, their noses brushing as he leans his forehead against hers and laces his fingers through hers.

“Okay,” she whispers.

They stand there together, breathing in this new reality. He tells himself that this was not what he came here for, but maybe it was. Maybe this was why the case got under her skin, why she kept pushing him. Either way, there is no going back, and he squeezes her hand to convey exactly how sure he is that they will make it.


	6. Cloak and Dagger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovely readers! My apologies for the long delay in posting a new chapter. Good thing these chapters stand alone! This is much longer than I originally intended but so much happened in the episodes that I couldn't very well ignore. 
> 
> Please read, enjoy, and leave feedback so I know that I'm not just spewing junk into the internet void.

She knows he is mad because he hates politics and with the Secretary of the Navy involved, this is as political as it gets for them. So when he storms off toward the elevator, she follows him. An argument ensues, because that is what they do. He is clearly frustrated and she lets him take it out on her, although as usual, she cannot resist pushing back a little. He asks her about throwing those punches, trying to “kimbo slice” her way through the room of guards, whatever that means. 

She is truthful when she says, “Gun shot went off. I saw  _ you _ …” She stops. Now is not the time to explain to him how there was no way for her to know that the bullets weren’t real, that the guards weren’t going to kill them, and she had feared he was dead. This is why she shut down and reverted to assassin mode, as he calls it, because she could not handle the possibility of his death.

They stare at each other intensely for a long moment, and he says in a low voice, “I’m tired of pretending.”

She can only respond with the truth. “So am I.” She hopes he does not ask what exactly she is tired of pretending because she honestly is not sure. 

“It’s dinner theater for an audience of one. Let the curtain go down,” he says and stalks out of the elevator. She isn’t sure what exactly that means, but she is fairly certain that he means the war games and politics. Not tired about pretending that they don’t mean more to each other than just partners or friends or whatever they claim their relationship to be. She’s tired of the war games, too, if just because they put Tony so much on edge. 

The elevator doors ding and she closes her eyes, composing herself, getting her emotions back in check. Her eyes snap back open when she hears the doors open and sees Tony hop back in. “Forget something?” she asks, keeping her tone as casual as possible.  

His eyes are still blazing. “Yeah,” he replies in that same low voice as before. “A question. What are _you_ tired of pretending?” He reaches over and hits the emergency brake on the elevator, bathing them in blue light.  

She is taken off guard by his sudden reappearance and subsequent question. She figured that he would assume she was talking about the same thing he was. “The politics,” she says, brow furrowing as she tries to work out his line of thought here. 

He frowns, shaking his head. “No,” he counters. “You don’t care about the politics. You even kind of like them. What are you _really_ tired of pretending?”  

The way he is able to read her both annoys and thrills her. She is not completely sure that he gets how connected they are, but maybe he does. After all, it is for this reason that they are both able to get under the other’s skin so easily. So she opts, again, for the truth. “That there is nothing between us beside partnership.” 

His eyes narrow, just the tiniest bit, as her words make their way through his brain. In a second, the anger on his face dissipates, and he searches her face for additional meaning. She holds her head high and looks right back at him. The truth is out, she figures, and there is no reason to hide. While she was somewhat dismayed when she first realized exactly how much this man, with his boyish idiocy and constant chatter, means to her, she knows that he is a good man with a good heart. He is not perfect, but neither is she. 

He takes a step toward her, places one of his large hands on the side of her face, his thumb brushing lightly over her lips. “Ziva…” he says, his voice low but missing the edge that it had before.  

She gravitates closer to him, leans into his touch, but stops anything else he might say. “This is not a good time. We have a mole to catch,” she says, sighing.  

He smiles at her, his eyes crinkling in the way that makes her stomach flip like she is a schoolgirl. “Once we figure this all out, we will continue this conversation,” he promises, removing his hand and stepping back to release the emergency brake. Back to business and politics and war games.

~ 

As soon as Michelle Lee says that she was protecting her sister, who she views as a daughter, Tony knows this would affect Ziva more than she would be willing to admit. After it all goes down about how he expects it would, he watches her watch Gibbs break the news to Agent Lee’s sister that Agent Lee is dead. He sees the tears pooling in her eyes and knows that she is thinking about her little sister. Tali, for whom she was never given the choice to sacrifice her own life. 

She glances at him once, an almost unbearably sad look on her face, before heading toward the elevator and he sits there for another second before grabbing his coat and following her. Before he can hit the down button on the elevator to chase after her, he hears the heavy door to the stairs nearby click shut. He redirects and jogs down a flight and a half of stairs before he almost trips over her sitting on a stair, her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands. 

“Leave me alone, Tony,” she says, voice slightly muffled but undeniably teary, knowing it is him before he says a word. 

This rejection is expected - she always pushes people away when she is feeling miserable - and instead, he sits down next to her. “No,” he tells her simply. He doesn’t say anything more or try to touch her, knowing intrinsically that she doesn’t want platitudes or empty gestures. He sits silently next to her as she composes herself, sniffling and taking deep breaths. 

After a few minutes, when he is sure she has her emotions back under control, he says, “Want to go to that Indian place with the buffet? All you can eat naan on me. And then you can explain what they’re singing and dancing about in those music videos they play at the bar while we get silly drunk.”

She turns her head to look at him. “You do not have to do this.” 

“Do what?” he blinks innocently.  

She narrows her eyes at him. “I know we had a… moment the other day in the elevator, but you should not feel obligated by anything we said.” 

He sighs. “Yes, we had a moment. We have a lot of moments. But right now, I'm just trying to get you out of your head space. Plus, I'm hungry.”  

“The space in my head is fine, as is the rest of me,” she snaps at him. Then without another glance at him, she stands up and brushes past him, leaving him sitting alone on the stairs. 

~

Later, he stands outside her apartment building, holding bags containing beer and Indian takeout. He buzzes the intercom for her apartment, but she does not answer. Lights are on in her apartment, so he knows she is home. She also won't answer his texts. 

As he considers his next move, someone appears in the building’s small lobby, heading towards him standing at the door. It is Ziva’s next door neighbor, an elderly woman who he has actually met a few times. She opens the front door and greets him. He flashes her his most charming grin and says, “Hi, Dolores, thanks for letting me in. I was going to surprise Ziva with dinner after we solved our latest case, but there was just one flaw in that plan.” He gestures toward the door to the lobby.  

Dolores smiles at him. She has told they numerous times how she feels safer knowing she is neighbors with a federal agent. “That's so nice, dear,” she replies. “I'm off to dinner with the girls, myself. You and Ziva have a nice night.” And with that, she disappears out of the building.  

He smiles to himself at this stroke of luck as he waits for the elevator up to her floor. There is a chance that Ziva will kick his ass to the moon and back for showing up unannounced at her apartment, but she likes Indian food and he found the IPA that she said that she liked, so he is hedging his bets. 

Still, he feels a bit of nervousness as he knocks on her front door. There is a long pause where she does not come to the door and he wonders if she looked through her peephole, saw him, and decided to just freeze him out. Just as he resolves that he will camp outside her door, knowing that she will have to come out at some point, the door opens and she is looking at him through a frown and narrowed eyes. “Tony, I told you I was not in the mood,” she starts to say. 

Before she can continue, he interrupts her. “Yeah, I know. But I’m done letting you shut me out.” 

She raises one of her eyebrows. “I am  _ fine _ ,” she insists.

“You’re not,” he says bluntly, putting his hand on the door to stop her from shutting it in his face. 

Her frown deepens. “Oh and now you are an expert in what I am feeling?” she challenges him.

He resists the urge to roll his eyes at her obstinacy. “Look, I’d love to keep arguing with you, but can you let me in? I don’t think your neighbors want to hear us.” 

There is a long pause where he sees her purse her lips and knows that she is deciding whether to grant his request or use her ninja strength to close the door on his fingers. He braces himself just in case, but she suddenly opens the door wider, making him stumble forward. “Fine,” she spits out and steps further into her living room. 

He walks in, closing the door behind him, and drops the bags onto her glass-topped coffee table. “Now, where were we? Oh yeah, you were trying to shut me out for the millionth time and I was trying to keep you from doing that.” He gestures with his hands to indicate that it is her turn. 

She crosses her arms across her chest, a defensive move. “Look, I am not like you or Abby. I do not want to _talk_ about my emotions.”  

“Who said anything about talking about emotions? I’m not a shrink,” he replies, shrugging. “I just don’t want you to freeze me out again.” 

“I am not freezing you. I do not want to talk right now. That is it. It is not always about you, you know.” 

He ignores the insult and counters. “Fine. We won’t talk. I brought Indian food and beer. We can eat. And drink. And not talk.”

She huffs out a laugh that is devoid of humor. “Like you could be silent for more than half a minute.” 

Again, he ignores the insult and barrels on. “Fine. You’re on,” he says, taking a seat on her couch and opening the bag of food. Instantly, the smell of spices escapes into the room and he knows she won’t be able to resist. He lays out the containers and removes the lids, and he feels more than sees Ziva sit down on the opposite end of the couch. She picks up the container of palak paneer and some naan and begins eating. He chooses the lamb curry and digs in as well. 

As promised, he doesn’t say a word. In fact, he doesn’t even look at her, like she is a skittish animal that might run away if he moves too fast. At one point, he reaches into the other bag and pulls out a bottle of beer and silently hands it to her. She gets up and returns shortly with a bottle opener. He hands her a second beer and she opens it and hands it back to him.  

After he has eaten his fill, he puts the almost empty container on the table and leans back. “Now wasn’t that worth it?” he asks, patting his full stomach appreciatively and glancing over at her.

She raises an eyebrow. “Maybe. How many movie quotes did you think of while you were quiet?”

“Maybe ten. Want to hear them?” he responds, grinning cheekily.

“No.” Her short answer is accompanied by what he interprets as an amused look. She seems to be thawing. Maybe it’s the beer, but he is thankful for it anyway. He has found over the years that he hates nothing more than to be frozen out by Mossad Officer Ziva David. And yet, it happens again and again.

Their eyes meet for a long moment. For once, she is the first to break the silence. “Look, Tony, about earlier,” she says with a small sigh. “I am sorry.”

Apologies from this woman is rare, and he blinks, wondering if she is sorry for trying to freeze him out or for showing her hand in the elevator the other day. Maybe the two are more related than he’d thought previously. “You have to stop shutting me out,” he chides gently. 

She fixes her eyes on him and is silent for a moment. “I shut you out so you do not have to deal with my…” she searches for the right word. “messes.”

“But that’s not what partners do. I mean, I involve you in pretty much all my messes.” She snorts in response to that and they fall silent again. That word - partners - hangs in the air between them, and he knows she’s thinking about that conversation in the elevator as well. He continues, “And that’s not all we are. We’re more than partners. Right?” In his head, he adds _please let me be right._  

Her eyes soften and she searches his face. “Yes,” she says quietly.  

He is not sure when it happened, but they have both migrated toward the center of the couch, so close that they are almost touching. He gently puts his hand on her face again, and he knows and she knows that they are about to kiss.  

But before this can happen, she breaks their heated gaze and looks down. “Tony…” she says, almost in a sigh. 

“Ziva?”

She looks back up at him, a rueful look on her face. “You know I am seeing someone in Israel, yes?” she asks. “I left that photo of him for you to find in my desk.” 

If they weren’t in the middle of a moment - yet another one - he would have laughed. Of course she left the photo there on purpose, to satisfy the curiosity she knew was eating him. He gives a half smile. “Ah yes, the mystery man,” he says, taking a light tone to hide his disappointment. 

“His name is Michael. He is also Mossad. I have known him since I was a child. He was a friend of Ari’s,” she says in a monotone, hardly the tone in which he expects her to describe a man with whom she is involved.

“Well,” he responds, leaning his head against the back of the sofa and turning so he is facing her. “That’s a lot of history.” 

“Yes,” she confirms. “But you and I have a lot of history as well.” 

He smiles - not his patented cheeky DiNozzo grin, but that private smile, the one that lately only she has seen. “Yes.” A long beat, as he hesitates, then asks, “So what now?” 

“I do not know,” she says with a deep sigh. 

He takes one of her hands, lacing his fingers through hers. “The way I see it,” he says, “You have two options. You can stay with Mr Israel and we stay partners. Or we finally stop dancing around this thing we’ve been dancing around for years and give it a go. Either way, I’ll still have your back.” He lifts their entwined hands to his lips and kisses her fingers gently. 

“Tony…” She looks like she is about to say more but trails off instead.

He lets go of her hand and pushes himself off her couch. “I’m gonna go. You have a choice to make,” he says, almost regretfully. She looks up at him, a grateful look on her face. He shoots her one last smile, then heads for her door.

~

The next morning, Tony bounds out of the elevator and into the bullpen. It is Friday and he loves Fridays right after they finish up a case and aren’t on call that weekend. Usually, it means they will get out at a decent hour, which is worth the otherwise dull day of paperwork. Plus, after showing his hand to Ziva last night, he feels ten pounds lighter. He hadn’t realized how much his evolving feelings had been weighing on his mind without being able to talk to anyone about them. 

He greets McGee cheerfully with a “Top o’the morning to you, lad” in a terrible attempt at a Cockney accent. The other agent shoots him a suspicious look as he mutters a return greeting but thankfully keeps his mouth otherwise shut. The last thing he needs is McGee inquiring into the reasons behind his unusually chipper mood. He sits at his desk and sips coffee as his computer goes through its morning ritual of groaning back to life. It takes a good two minutes before he realizes that Ziva is not at her desk. He is usually the last of the three Musketeers to arrive in the mornings.

“Where’s the ninja?” he asks McGee, gesturing at her empty seat. 

McGee shrugs. “Probably running an errand before work.” He looks unconcerned, but Tony frowns slightly at his slowly awakening computer. She didn’t get freaked out by their conversation last night and decide to hightail it back to Israel, did she? 

Before he can make up his mind whether or not to send her a text confirming that she has not been kidnapped by anti-Semitic terrorists, the elevator dings and she steps out. She is on her cell phone, speaking emphatically in Hebrew. Instead of heading straight to her desk, she walks right past it to pace around behind the open staircase. He has no idea to whom she is speaking or what she is saying, but she sounds angry. He and McGee exchange looks, then silently go back to staring at their computer screens as she winds up her call with an aggressive, “Todah.” 

She makes her way back to her desk and sits down in a way that makes Tony wince in pain for her chair. “Uh, you okay, Ziva?” McGee asks.

“I am fine, McGee,” she says curtly. Then she takes a deep breath and continues, in a normal tone, “Thank you for asking.”

McGee’s eyes tick toward Tony but he just shrugs at the younger man. His imagination is going wild about the nature of that conversation but he is not about to share those thoughts with anyone, especially not McGossip.

~ 

After lunch, as he revising his field report, which had been rejected by Gibbs once already, he gets an IM from Ziva, asking him about his plans for the evening. Keeping his giddiness in check, he responds with  _ Nothing special. You? _

He can hear her tapping away at her keyboard but he doesn’t dare look up. A minute later, she sends him a response.  _ Want to come over? I will cook dinner. _

It takes him less than half a minute to send another message.  _ You’re on. _ As if he would ever turn down a Ziva-cooked meal or a chance to ask about the tense call from the morning. In the back of his mind, he remembers all of the Ziva-cooked meals he missed when he was undercover and falling in love with Jeanne Benoit, but he quickly shoves those thoughts back into a dark corner of his mind.

~ 

“So what was that phone call this morning about?” he asks, slurping down pho. Ziva had claimed that she had never made pho before, and that the recipe was simple enough that he could make it himself but he declined a copy of the recipe, saying he would rather just have her make it for him. She had narrowed her eyes at him at this and said that she was not his personal chef. 

They are sitting at her small dining room table, steaming bowls of Vietnamese noodles in front of them. So far, they have talked about work and the meal in front of them, carefully skirting around the things he really wants to talk about. Namely, if she has dumped Mr Israel on his ear or if he will have to pretend for the rest of his life that this woman in front of him doesn’t mean more to him than any other field partner he has had over the years. 

But finally, his curiosity has gotten the better of him and he blurts out the question out of the blue. She merely smirks in response at first, as if she couldn’t believe he had gone that long without asking her, knowing how his curiosity has him always wanting to know about any phone conversation she has in Hebrew in his presence. He despairs that she isn’t going to answer him, but then she says, “I was telling Michael that if he comes here to attempt to win me back, I will castrate him.” 

She says it nonchalantly, but in that one sentence, he gleans all the information he needs. First, a reminder to never mess with her. Second, that she has broken up with Michael. He suddenly wants to pump his fists in the air like he won an Olympic gold medal but refrains. “So you broke up with him, huh?” he responds casually, taking a sip of the soup with a small ladle-like spoon.

She rolls her eyes at him. “Yes,” she confirms, “but not for _you_. I had been suspecting that my father had ordered him to start a relationship with me so that I would not become too Americanized. When I asked Michael about it, he did not deny it. He claims that he fell in love with me on his own anyway, but I cannot trust him.”  

This revelation makes him raise his eyebrows. Her father had ordered Mr Israel to woo his daughter? It should surprise him, but from what he knows about Eli David, it sounds pretty typical. Selfishly, he is glad about this. It means that he isn’t responsible for breaking up a relationship. In the past, he hadn’t cared but for some reason, it matters with Ziva. Then again, a lot of things that didn’t matter to him in past relationships matter to him when it comes to her. The reverse is true as well. _Easy there, DiNozzo_ , he thinks to himself as he listens to her continue describing the phone call from this morning, _you’re not exactly dating her right now._  

“Wow,” he says when she finishes her story. “Your father really did that?” 

“Yes. It really was just a matter of time before he tried to marry me off, but it still pisses me off, you know?” she responds. She is talking fast, in the way she does when she is annoyed. “And the reason for it is so obvious.”

“Because he wants to control every aspect of your life?” he guesses.

“No,” she says. “Well, yes. But also because he thinks that you and I are sleeping together.” 

He chokes a little on the hot soup at this. “He what?” he splutters, blinking. 

“Oh yes. He got someone from the embassy to take pictures of me letting you into my apartment. This was, oh, two summers ago. When Gibbs retired and I was accused of murder. Officer Bashan showed me the pictures and then asked if I was sleeping with you. I did not respond and I think he took that as a ‘yes,’ and reported back to my father.”  

He wonders if he should be concerned for his safety at this news, but figures if nothing has happened to him by now, he is likely safe. In response, all he can think to say is, “Huh.”

She looks him dead on and says, “This is the kind of mess that I try to keep you out of. Are you sure you want to get involved?”   


“I’m already involved in this one,” he points out.  

“That is true.” 

He takes a sip of water, trying to soothe his still burning throat. After a beat, he asks, “Should I be worried about your father hiring hit men to take me out?”

He almost snickers at her brief  _ does not compute _ face as she figures out what he means by his question. Then she shrugs and replies, “Probably not. I do not think he has killed any of the other men with whom I have had relationships.”

The weight of her words makes them both pause. “So,” he ventures eventually. “We’re in a relationship?”

She raises her eyebrows at him. “Are we not? I do not make Vietnamese comfort food for just anyone, you know.”

“You said you hadn’t made it before.”

“Oh. Yes.”

They lapse back into silence, broken only by sounds of tiny ladles and chopsticks on porcelain bowls. He can’t hide the smile creeping onto his face and he sees a similar smile dawning on hers. 

~ 

And that is how they start their relationship. There is no fanfare, no grand declarations in public. They slide into it quietly and find it to be natural, comfortable. They quickly lay ground rules - no carrying over of work arguments into their personal relationship, and no carrying over of personal arguments into work. They call it Rule Two, and any time one of them starts to break it, the other is quick with a reminder.

Rule One is simply  _ Don’t do anything to make Gibbs transfer one of us to another team. _ It is closely associated with Rule Two, and they are diligent to not break it.

Rule Three is  _ No kissing on the job _ . This is one they break regularly, although they make sure they are alone before they do so, because, as Tony put it, “Do we really want to be caught making out by Gibbs? Or Vance, for that matter?”

Despite their rules and best efforts at keeping their work partnership the same, Gibbs senses the subtle changes and figures it out fairly quickly. He looks annoyed, concerned, then resigned, as if he knew it was inevitable.

They keep it hidden from McGee and Abby longer, but Abby figures it out eventually and clues in McGee by squealing and jumping up and down. Ducky hears about from Abby or McGee, or he figures it out on his own, they aren’t sure which, but he tells them anecdotes about coworkers he has known who have successfully navigated romantic relationships, tacitly giving his approval to the couple. Ziva in particular is pleased with his blessing.

Tony does not have to fear retaliation from Eli David. Unbeknownst to him, Ziva has a talk with her father in which she threatens to stop all contact with him, and Eli, conniving though he is, is unwilling to cut ties with his only living child. He doesn’t welcome Tony into the family with open arms, but he doesn’t send assassins after him, and for that, Tony is thankful.

Despite his penchant for movie quotes and her inability to grasp cultural references, as he puts it, they are more compatible than they imagined, and their relationship quietly passes the relationship milestones with no more than standard glitches - moving in together (she looked blankly at his vast movie collection, then gathers herself bravely and announces that they need another bookshelf), anniversaries (they both sometimes forget), talk about having children together (despite his fear of children, he says he wants one, and she says she wants two because the love of a sibling is something everyone deserves, but they stop short of talking about when they will start trying), whether she should apply for US citizenship (they both agree yes). 

They both eventually move on to new positions. Gibbs gets into another accident and retires for good, handing the reins to MCRT to Tony. Ziva decides that she no longer wants to be, as her father put it, the pointy end of the spear, so she moves into Intelligence, into which she originally wanted to go when she first started out at Mossad before her father made her a field agent. And while she will not admit it out loud, she knows that this position will be easier to do while pregnant, and the hours, while rather unusual since she mainly works the Middle East, are more family-friendly.

And so the reformed womanizer and ninja assassin build their life together, serving their country (because of course Ziva passes her citizenship test and becomes a US citizen) and finding themselves in domestic mostly-bliss, because of course she is still hot tempered and he still occasionally acts like a child. Through the years, things change and things stay the same, but always, they have each other’s backs.


	7. Bounce

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After a break, I am back to rewatching episodes, so there should be more of these coming. Enjoy!

The night they solve the case - and Renny leaves town - he shows up at her place with a box of pizza and a bottle of wine. 

(Gibbs has his boat, bourbon, and basement. He has Ziva and pizza. He thinks he has the better deal.) 

The bottle has a gold bow attached to its neck. “Because I yelled at you earlier,” he says, a sheepish smile on his face. She smirks at him and opens the door wider for him. Their version of apology and acceptance.

Even though it has been three years since the last time they did this end-of-case ritual, they settle back into the old routine seamlessly. He gets the same wine glasses out of the same cabinet in her kitchen. She opens the bottle, because he is more likely to push the cork into the wine.

(“I would have thought a man such as yourself would be more adept at opening a bottle of wine,” she had said the first time he had corked the wine and she had had to decant it. He had merely made a face at her in response, although he had really wanted to ask just what kind of man she thought he was.)

They sit in their usual spots on her couch, next to each other but not too close, pizza box open in front of them on the coffee table, black and white movie playing on the TV. They each polish off two slices before she speaks. “Did you go to Palmer for help?”

“Yep. He even brought the right coffee. Good to know those months of training him didn’t go to waste.”

“I told you that you underestimated him,” she replies.

(“Gibbs goes to Ducky for guidance,” she had said. “Who do you go to?” He had given her a pointed look but she had shaken her head. “No, it cannot be me. I am on your team. It cannot be Abby, either,” she added quickly, as if she could read his mind. “Try Palmer. He is more perceptive than he appears.”)

“Yeah, yeah, you were right,” he says dismissively, taking another slice out of the box. 

They lapse back into silence, but neither are watching the movie. He is preoccupied, thinking about how he put an innocent man in prison. She is waiting for him to talk, knowing he will eventually. When he has that look on his face, the dark brooding look, it is only a matter of time.

(The last time she had seen that look on his face was after the mess with Jeanne Benoit, when she had cornered him in the bathroom and told him that he needed to move on from her.)

After about ten minutes, he is ready to talk. “Did you really mean it when you said that I’m a competent, capable investigator?” he asks, turning his head to look at her.

She smirks. “And a good leader. Yes.” She knows that he had been listening around the corner when she told McGee that the other day. “I would not have said it if it was not true.”

(She knows that he had been listening because he did it often before and he is not as unpredictable as he likes to think.)

He takes a bite of pizza, chews thoughtfully. He knows that she would not lie to him to spare his feelings, that for a trained assassin, she is a horrible liar. No, that’s not quite right. She is a good liar, just not to him. He isn’t sure if it’s because he knows her so well that he can see through her lies or because she cannot lie to him. And  _ that _ is a rabbit hole of a thought that he doesn’t have the capacity to go down right at this moment.

Another long pause. “Gibbs told me he was proud of me.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees her smile, just a little. “As he should be.” She wonders if this will inflate his ego, make him insufferable. She hopes so. It is easier when he is that Tony, all swagger and machismo. Not this self-doubting Tony with the fragile ego. At the same time, she would not trade in these little moments for anything. At first, the cracks in his polished exterior annoyed her, but she quickly learned that he does not show these cracks to just anyone, and she likes this vulnerable Tony. 

(In moderation. She also likes a confident man.)

Without looking at her, he says, as casually as possible, “Oh hey, Sergeant Mitch Wilkins says hi. Actually, he said something about poking you?”

She turns her head slowly toward him, a mystified look on her face. She blinks once, twice, then something seems to click. “Oh yes. Facebook. Was that before or after he was put in custody?”

“Before.”  _ Does that matter _ , he wants to ask. He doesn’t realize he said it out loud until she answers.

“No,” she answers. Then, “Are you jealous, Tony?”

He smirks. “Of an embezzler and a murderer? Not likely.” 

(He wants to say,  _ yes. _ )

Then he asks, still feigning casualness, “So, Facebook, huh?”

She looks at him out of the corner of her eye. “Yes. I joined so I could keep up with my cousins in Israel. You are not on it?”

(Of course she knows he is not. It is almost a surprise that he can turn his computer on.)

“Wilkins friended me, soon after the embezzlement case closed,” she says while wondering why she feels she must explain. “We chatted a bit, he asked me on a date. I said yes. He asked for another date. I said no.”

(“Is it because of that partner of yours?” Wilkins had asked. Even though he was on the phone, she had raised her eyebrows before blinking once and giving him the standard  _ busy with work, no time for anything else _ response that she gave when a first date tried to turn into a second date.)

He nods, but still has a particular look on his face that makes her steel herself for his next question. “Is your Israeli boyfriend on Facebook?”

She is silent for long enough that he wishes he could take that question back. Finally, she says, “No. He hardly has time to write email. Facebook is well beyond him.”

“Do I sense trouble in paradise?” He has adopted that too casual tone of voice again.

She snorts. “Hardly. That assumes there is paradise.”

(In reality, she had gotten tired of all the secrets, even though she knows Michael could not tell her about his Mossad missions. There was something else that he was not telling her and she could not abide being in a relationship with someone so secretive. They did not officially break up so much as just slowly stop communicating altogether.)

That answer makes him happier than he is willing to acknowledge, and so he turns his attention to the movie, which he has thus far ignored. He has seen it before but can’t remember the name, which is highly unusual for him. As he is trying to figure it out the name of the movie, a thought comes unbidden into his head. This is the first time in a while where both he and she are unattached. 

And because apparently the filter that keeps him from saying every thought that pops into his head when he’s around her is broken tonight, he says that thought out loud. 

He stares at the TV while saying this but he can see her turn her head toward him in her periphery. He implores himself to not look at her until she says something but he can’t help himself. Slowly, he turns his head until he is staring straight into her eyes. The look on her face is unreadable. They have a silent staring contest until he thinks that he will have to make a joke, anything to break the silence. The tension is suddenly so high he thinks he can hear its hum. 

But she breaks first. “That is true, I suppose,” she says carefully. Her dark eyes flit across his face as if searching for something. His meticulously maintained DiNozzo the Clown facade is down and he lets her see on his face all the words he can’t say. She doesn’t shudder or laugh, just continues to gaze steadily at him. 

She thinks maybe he is going to kiss her, and she mentally prepares for it, but he does not. Part of her is disappointed, but she is also pleased. It would be such an obvious move - movie on in the background, buzzed on good red wine, actually honest conversation. Instead, a slow smile blooms across his face. It is infectious and she can feel herself returning it. 

They grin at each other for a long moment, then the look on his face shifts and he says, “Laura!” 

“What?”  _ My name is Ziva _ , she wants to tell him.

“The movie.” He gestures toward the TV. “ _ Laura _ , 1944. Gene Tierney.” She is still looking a bit startled, so he explains further. “I couldn’t remember the name of this movie but it just came to me.”

She cannot help but laugh at him. 

~

The shift in their relationship is barely perceptible but it is there. Outwardly, they continue on with business as usual. They banter, tease, argue, watch each other when they think the other is not looking. 

Then one morning, she is running a little late and he is a little early, and so they arrive in the parking lot at the same time. They park next to each other and walk toward the building together. By some fluke of nature, they have the elevator car to themselves as they head up to the bullpen. 

He asks her how she’s doing, and she is about to open her mouth to respond when suddenly he is kissing her. She is wearing her hair down and he tangles one hand in her curls, the other hand moves to her waist, holding on to her as if she might bolt. He tastes of mint toothpaste. The smell of his aftershave is almost intoxicating. She puts a hand on his chest as she loses herself in the feel of his lips against hers, softer than she remembered.

Too soon, they feel the elevator slow down and they break apart, clear throats. When the elevator doors open with a ding, they are standing next to each other, both facing the elevator doors. Business as usual.

Except Gibbs, with his superhuman powers of perception, notices. He takes Tony with him to Arizona. And when they return, he sends Ziva and McGee to Chicago on Director Vance’s security detail. When Ducky asks Gibbs about the change up in partnering, he shrugs and says, “Just shaking things up, Duck.”

Vance’s friend, Tara, asks Tony about his love life, suggestively. He is flattered but surprisingly uninterested. Tara smirks at him and asks about his love life, to which he shrugs and mumbles something about a dry spell and a work in progress. As Tara is advising him to pick the right woman, the elevator doors open, and there Ziva stands. 

When Tara asks Ziva about her love life, Ziva merely shrugs. Tara asks about department policy regarding dating coworkers and Ziva explains Gibbs’ Rule 12. Tara smiles knowingly and asks about punishments for breaking that rule. Ziva says that no one has tried. Tara gives her a look and says, “Yet, right?”

(Later, Tony and Ziva will ask what each said to Tara and then wonder out loud if they have been that obvious. Ziva postulates that an outsider sees things that those who see them every day do not.)

He takes the hint, in any case, and as soon as the case is solved, he makes his way to her place. She answers the door in sweatpants, a tank top, and a puzzled look on her face. Before she can say anything, he kisses her in a rush, walking her backward and kicking the door closed behind them.

(He will look back later and observe how it was the best way ever to end a dry spell.) 


	8. Legend, Parts 1 and 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hold on to your hats, folks. It's a long one. I thought both Tony and Ziva handled the whole Rivkin thing all wrong, so I rewrote it, and then I wanted to include some other points, and then... well, you'll see. 
> 
> Lyrics at the beginning by Rachael Yamagata.

 

_ You think you are such a heavy weight, _

_ But I’m sure of something. _

_ You don’t have to be afraid to cry, _

_ Just show me what you’ve got inside. _

_ I can be your place to hide if you would just release your pride. _

_ Win or lose, I’m by your side. _

_ Give up your heavy weight tonight. _

  
  


He doesn’t mind covering for her. They’re partners, after all. He covers for her and she covers for him. That's what having a partner means. They have each other’s backs, always.

But this time, he knows she is lying when she says she is following up on a lead. She is a good liar, but they spend almost every day together. He knows her tells. Some subtle thing about her voice, he thinks.

It must have to do with the man who called her work phone and then her cell. The mystery man speaks with an accent similar to hers, and so he correctly guesses that it is Michael, the Israeli boyfriend about whom she says next to nothing. He knows she is a private person, but for this guy, she is taking it to a new level. And he knows she has lied to him before, but there is something different about this one. She looks worried, all the time, and she is so preoccupied that she cannot make her face a blank slate.

It bothers him enough that he goes to Ducky for advice. And that’s where he learns about how she almost died in that undercover op in Morocco while he was agent abroad. He knew about the op but not the brush with death. Nobody had mentioned that part, although he currently does not have space in his brain to think about why that might be.

He begins to develop a hunch and his cop instincts know better than to ignore hunches. He watches the footage from the aftermath in MTAC. Seeing her lying on the gurney, bleeding and clearly dazed, being wheeled into an ambulance while not putting up a fight is startling. She hates hospitals as much as him. He takes a deep breath to stave off the feeling that comes over him at the thought that she might have died while he was stuck in the middle of the ocean halfway around the world and might not have found out for weeks. 

As he rewinds and watches the clip over and over, feeling tiny bits of him being chipped away with every viewing, he isn’t sure what he is looking for until he finds it. The Israeli boyfriend, hovering near her, with intense eyes. He must be Mossad. What other reason would he have for being there?

The pieces start coming together when he and Abby find the photo of him and Eli David. His ID says banker but that is clearly a cover for Mossad. But he still can’t see the bigger picture. 

Why is she lying, and why is she so worried? 

He gives her an opportunity to explain. In the elevator, he oh-so-casually brings up Michael, asks without asking if he is in DC. And she lies to him again. She has to know he knows she is lying, but yet she continues to do it. She shifts uncomfortably under his scrutiny but doesn't back down from the mountain of lies she has built.

It turns out that she wasn’t lying that time. Michael wasn’t in DC at that exact moment. He was in LA, where he ran into the local NCIS team. Gibbs and McGee are there, working a case. He tells himself that it is a coincidence. 

Except there are no such things as coincidences.

In the dim light of MTAC, he watches her reaction very carefully as Gibbs asks her about Michael. Rivkin. He has a last name now. 

Then she lies again, saying that she has not worked with him in some time. He had been hoping she would come clean to Gibbs but isn’t surprised when she doesn’t. 

When he speaks with McGee, who tells him that Rivkin is killing the members of the sleeper cell they are tracking, he knows that he has to call her out on her lies, that she is helping to impede an NCIS investigation. It won’t be pretty, and part of him hopes that she will come to her senses and confess everything, if not to him, then to Gibbs. But he knows she will not. He has to collapse her mountain of lies. 

It's not because he is jealous, although he is. She is obstructing the law by letting a foreign operative kill on US soil. He wraps himself up in patriotic righteousness as he sits at his desk, Mighty Mouse stapler twirling in his hand, preparing mentally for the battle he knows is coming. He tells himself that he has to do it, but that is of little comfort. 

~

_ “Okay, are you by any chance questioning my loyalty?” _

_ “I am questioning why you didn’t tell them you saw him three days ago.” _

_ “Are you jealous?” _

_ “No. I’m worried. Because you don’t seem to understand that your secret friend is interfering with this agency’s ability to shut down a terrorist cell.” _

_ “Interfering? How is he interfering?” _

_ “He’s already killed two suspects.” _

_ “Well, in my country, that would be cause for celebration.” _

_ “You’re not in your country and neither is he!” _ _   
_

When he raises his voice to her, he knows that he is risking his life. Her face tightens but she merely asks, “Have you finished?”

“Yes.” But that’s a lie. At this point, they’re indiscriminately flinging lies at each other. He has one last question. Would she tell him if she knew where Michael was? At last, she is honest and tells him no. A truth she spits out. Whether or not she would actually tell Gibbs like she says is more than he can puzzle out at the moment. 

The elevator doors close and she disappears, and he is left with more questions than when he started. The adrenaline fades, and he is left with the deeply rooted hurt that comes with finding out that the person you trust with your life doesn’t trust you the same way after all.

~

When the case finally closes, when the bad guys have lost like they are supposed to, it dawns on him that he handled this all wrong. Hindsight, as usual, is two steps behind. He is filled with an overwhelming urge to make it right, to make  _ them  _ right. 

Abby tells him that Rivkin is on his way to DC for a layover on his way back to Tel Aviv, and he bolts, leaving Abby staring at his rapidly retreating back. He has to get to Ziva's and fix things before Rivkin arrives. If he does not, their relationship will be forever poisoned. 

He channels Ziva’s driving style and makes it to her apartment in record time. He parks a block away in what may or may not be an actual parking spot, but he doesn’t care. 

As soon as she opens her door in response to his knock and sees him, she looks daggers and tries to slam the door shut, but he is quicker and the door is stopped by his foot. “Wait,” he says before she can open her mouth to tell him to buzz off.

“What, so you can insult me some more?” she spits at him bitterly.

He keeps his tone low, even. “No,” he replies. “So I can apologize.”

Her eyes narrow, as if expecting a trap. He quickly adds, “Look, I was wrong. But can I at least explain myself?”

She glares at him for another second. He looks steadily back at her, keeping his face relaxed and open. After a long moment, the look in her eyes shifts and she opens the door wider. “Fine. You have three minutes.”

He hadn’t had time to plan out any sort of a speech and so he goes for bare honesty, explaining to her how things looked to him and where he went wrong. When he is done, she is silent and staring past him at the wall, but he thinks what he has said is registering. 

“And that was all it was? You were concerned for the agency?” she asks eventually. 

In a split second, he decides exactly how honest he is going to be with her. “No,” he admits, ignoring the buzzing that has suddenly invaded his ears and the bitter taste of adrenaline creeping up his throat. “You were right. I was jealous.”

Her brows furrow together and her eyes dart to his face. She didn’t expect him to own up to the jealousy that has been eating away at him since he first suspected that she was seeing someone. “Why?” she asks.

He had been hoping she wouldn’t ask, that she would just get it, but hey, what does he have to lose besides everything? “Because it meant you let someone else in when you wouldn’t let me in.”

This conversation is not going in the direction she had imagined when she opened the door and saw him standing there, that much is obvious from the look on her face. “What do you mean by that? You want to be… let in?” She looks mystified, like the thought had never occurred to her that he might harbor more than friendly, work-partner feelings for her.

At last, he's standing on the ledge, about to take that final step over, and he freezes. So instead, he says simply, “We’re partners.”

She purses her lips. “Work partners do not care about being  _ let in _ ,” she tells him tartly. 

“I do,” he replies, then to cover the fact that he still hasn’t answered her question, he continues. “So why don’t you?” 

“I-” she starts, then pauses. When she speaks again, her voice is quieter. “Because every man I let into my life betrays me.”

“And you think I will too, if you let me in.” It is a statement, not a question.

“Yes.” She whispers the word, as if afraid to give it more voice.

He searches her face. She looks genuinely apprehensive and this surprises him. “I wouldn’t betray you, Ziva,” he says gently. 

“That is what they all say,” she rebukes, her voice still a whisper.

Brow furrowed, he takes a tentative step toward her. “Do you trust me?”

“I-” She stops herself again. “Yes.”

He takes another step toward her, then another, until he is close enough to touch her. Her breath hitches for a moment before becoming measured. “So trust that I won't hurt you, and let me in.”

“It is not that easy,” she replies with a rueful smile. “There are many things you do not know about me, about my past.”

“I know.” He looks steadily into her eyes. “But I know enough. And you don’t have to do everything alone.”

Slowly, he reaches up to place the palm of his hand on the side of her face. She closes her eyes and, he thinks, leans into his touch. She breathes his name and he thinks he has finally gotten his point across.

A knock on the door makes them both jump. He drops his hand, she opens her eyes and steps away. “That must be Michael.” She looks toward the door, her face adopting the worried expression she has worn for the last week. “You should go.”

As she walks past him, he grabs the crook of her elbow. “Hey,” he says, his voice still quiet. “Remember, you're not alone, no matter what happens.” He gives her a small, almost shy smile, then lets go of her. She looks up at him, her eyes soft and gives the tiniest hint of a smile, before she continues on to the door.

She opens it to reveal Michael. “Ah, Ziva,” he says in greeting, moving in to kiss her. She turns her face slightly and he ends up kissing her cheek. 

“Michael.” Her voice is tight.

As Rivkin steps into the apartment, he finally notices Tony standing somewhat awkwardly in the middle of her living room. “Oh, I did not know you had company,” he says. Tony detects a slight slur and wonders if he had been drinking again. 

“Michael, this is Tony DiNozzo, my… partner.” Ziva hesitates slightly on the last word. If Rivkin notices, he says nothing about it. 

Instead, he focuses his eyes on Tony, as if sizing him up, and then holds out his hand. “It is nice to meet you, Tony. Ziva has told me much about you.”

Tony shakes his hand and replies, “Can't say that Ziva has mentioned you much.” He can't help the slight edge in his voice. He doesn't think Rivkin notices, but Ziva does. She narrows her eyes from behind Michael. A warning to him.

“Are you here to discuss work?” Rivkin asks, sitting down on the couch. Making himself at home in a way that gets under Tony's skin.

Quickly, Ziva interjects, “Yes, but he is just leaving.”

He gives Rivkin a tight smile that doesn't reach his eyes. “Nice meeting you,” he says, not really meaning it. Turning to Ziva, he adds, “I'll see you at work. Remember what we discussed.” Then, without looking back, he walks out her door. He shuts it quietly behind him and ignores the urge to eavesdrop on their conversation. He said what he had come here to say, and he hopes he got through to her. The rest is up to her. 

~

He goes back to the office to finish the paperwork he had abandoned earlier. Neither Gibbs nor McGee is there. To keep himself from wondering what Ziva is doing now, he concentrates on making his latest report a masterpiece. His cell phone sits on his desk, quiet. She didn't say she would call and he didn't ask her to (why didn't he again?), but he keeps an eye on it anyway. 

An hour and a half later, his report is finished and sitting on Gibbs’ desk. No call. He decides to head home, where his couch and movies await. 

He has comfort movies the way other people have comfort foods, and tonight, he relies on them. They are the perfect blend of comedy, drama, and action, all with happy endings neatly wrapped up.

Nothing like reality, but if he wanted reality, he'd just take stock of his own life.

Horizontal on his couch, a throw pillow smushed perfectly under his head, one of those comfort movies on, and his phone finally buzzes, alerting him to a text message. It's from her. 

_ Still awake? _

He quickly types back, _ Yes _ .

_ Can I come over? I am just leaving Gibbs’. _

He squints at the screen, wondering why she went to see Gibbs. Maybe she broke up with Rivkin, and told Gibbs what she knew about him and his mission. (Maybe maybe maybe. Hopefully.) His pulse quickens as he responds,  _ Sure _ .

He sits upright and turns on a light. “Well, Kate, it’s the moment of truth,” he says out loud to the goldfish swimming leisurely in its glass bowl. The movie is still playing on the tv and he tries to distract himself with it, but he can’t help glancing at the small clock that sits on his piano. At this time of night, it should take about 20 minutes to get from Gibbs’ to his place, not taking into account driving style. So for her, maybe 15.

Just as he is forcing himself to not look at the clock, there is a knock on his door. He jumps up, then hesitates. He has been waiting for her, maybe since forever, and now she's here and he hesitates? Shaking his head at himself, he goes to the door. 

She is there, looking weary, as if it's the middle of the night and she hasn't slept. Which is the truth. “Hey,” he says, unable to come up with anything else to say. 

She blinks at him. “Are you going to let me in?” she asks.

“Oh.” He opens the door wider and steps aside, allowing her to slip past him. She stands in the middle of his living room and turns around slowly, seeming to take in everything.

“So this is your place. It is nice. Not what I had imagined.” 

He forgot that this is the first time she has been to his place. It's one of his rules, after all. Never bring the ladies over to his place, where they might overstay their welcome. The thought that Ziva would overstay her welcome is almost laughable. He shrugs. “This is Casa DiNozzo. Want anything to drink?” He moves toward the kitchen, happy to have something to do other than stand there and watch her look at his stuff. “I have beer and, uh, well, water.”

“Anything harder?” she asks. 

He remembers the emergency vodka in the freezer. “Vodka?”

“Yes.”

After pouring vodka into two short glasses and adding two ice cubes each, he carries them into the living room where she has taken a seat on his couch. The sight of her sitting on his couch, leaning back against the plush cushions, looking so completely at home almost makes him trip. Instead, he pulls himself together enough to hand her a glass and take a seat on the opposite end of the couch. 

She downs half of her glass in one long sip, then looks him square in the eye and remarks, “I am surprised you have not yet asked what happened after you left.”

“I figured you’d tell me when you were ready. And if you don’t, then you don’t.” He is learning, is what he wants to say. The angry Tony of earlier in the day would have pushed her, but it would have just led to her pulling away from him, and that is the last thing he wants.

Raising her eyebrows, she responds, “That is very mature of you.” She takes a small sip from her glass, then continues. “Michael was drunk enough to tell me more about his mission although likely not everything. I cannot tell you all of the details because it is a Mossad mission, and I could not tell Gibbs either. I am employed by Mossad, not NCIS, am I not? I have obligations.” She sounds defensive and he works hard to keep his face neutral, even though he disagrees. “He did reassure me that he has not gone rogue like Ari. All of his actions have been sanctioned by my father.”

“All of them?” he repeats. “That’s not good.”

“If Michael is telling the truth, then Mossad is violating international law. This is why I told Gibbs. I imagine he will tell the new director.” She breaks eye contact to watch the way the remaining liquid in her glass swirls as she moves it, ice cubes clinking.

He opens his mouth, then closes it. It must have been difficult for her to tell Gibbs that she suspected her father was violating international law. For possibly the first time, he appreciates the difficulty of her position, of being loyal to two agencies that have different agendas. It’s easy for him. His loyalty is to Gibbs and NCIS. He silently watches her struggle to keep her face emotionless. ‘

“That must have been hard,” is all he can think of to say after a long pause.

She takes a deep breath. “Yes.” After another silence, she adds, “It is over with Michael. I clearly cannot trust him.”

He isn’t completely certain how she got from point A to point B, but he likes point B, so he lets it go. Again, he doesn’t know what to say, so he offers up, “I’m sorry.”

“It is not your fault,” she says, shrugging a shoulder. 

“It’s not yours either.”

This earns him a rueful half smile. “Is it not?”

He gives her a pointed look. “No, it’s not,” he says emphatically.

“I keep trusting the wrong people. My father, Ari, Michael. I am not exactly pitching a thousand.”

He can’t stop himself from automatically correcting her. “It’s batting a thousand. But you also trust Gibbs.”  _ And me _ , he adds silently.

“Even so. You should run very far away from me, Tony.”

“Not gonna happen,” he replies quickly. 

She shakes her head. “I am not…” She pauses, clearly searching for the right word. “Safe.”

“If I wanted safe, I’m in the wrong profession,” he counters with a smirk. He reaches over and lifts her chin with a gentle finger so she is looking at him. “You are exactly who I want.”

His admission, finally stated. A weight he didn’t know he had been carrying is lifted from his shoulders. She searches his face almost desperately, as if expecting to find a hint that he is lying. “Tony,” she says quietly. “Do we really want to open that door?”

He gives her a soft smile. “I think we already have.” 

He moves his hand up to cup the side of her face, his thumb brushing lightly over her cheek. As before, she leans just a little into his touch and closes her eyes. This time, there is no knock on the door to distract them. He leans forward and softly brushes his lips against hers, a whisper of a kiss. Then he rests his forehead against hers and there they sit silently, breathing the same air, adjusting to this new reality.

After what feels like an eternity, she pulls back and yawns. “Can I stay on your couch?” she asks. “Michael is still in my apartment. He was too drunk for me to kick him out.”

“Yeah. You take the bed, though. I’ll sleep on the couch,” he says. “It’s um, a twin. But really comfortable. You’ve had a long few days.”

For the first time in what feels like years, she smiles. “A twin?” she repeats, her voice tinged with teasing. “The famous Anthony DiNozzo, Junior, sleeps in a twin bed?”

He shrugs. “I don’t bring women over here. It’s my sanctuary.”

“But you let me come over.”

“Because you’re different.” He smiles and taps the tip of her nose. “Come on. It’s a school night.”

~

Hours later, as the sun is beginning to make its appearance, they head out the door together. He’s wearing one of his suits, a grey one that she says she has always liked on him, she’s wearing yesterday’s clothes. Outside the entrance to his building, she pauses, reaches out to grab his hand and give it a squeeze. “I will go to my apartment first to kick out Michael and change my clothes. Cover for me?”

He squeezes back and smiles. “Of course. What else are partners for?”

~

She slips behind her desk quietly, about an hour later. He keeps his eyes on his computer screen and tries to watch her in his periphery. When he can’t get a clue as to how things went back at her apartment, he heads to the men’s room to see if she follows to give him an update. She does not. He returns to his desk and wills her to go to the ladies’ room so he can corner her.

Before he is successful in his endeavor, Gibbs gets a phone call. “Gear up. Dead navy officer in Rock Creek Park,” he barks in the familiar manner. “DiNozzo, David, meet us there with the van. Start processing the scene. McGee, with me. We gotta make a detour first.”

They grab their gear and head for the elevator. He swears Gibbs gives him a pointed look but has no idea what it could mean. Gibbs can’t know that Ziva stopped by his place after she left his house. Can he? He keeps his most innocent face on throughout the elevator ride, staring at the space above the doors.

Alone at last in the garage, cleaning out the van, he finally is able to ask her, “Everything okay?”

She pokes her head out of the back of the van to smile at him. “Yes.” She does not say anything else, but he can hear her humming as she continues to make sure the van is properly stocked. 

Once they are on the road, she asks, “What are you doing Friday night?”

“Assuming we're not working this case all weekend, whatever you're doing?” he replies, keeping his eyes on the road, but raising his eyebrows hopefully. 

“Come over, and I will make dinner. We can watch a movie after.”

He grins. “It's a date.”

“If you behave.”

~

He crosses his fingers and almost cheers when Gibbs sends them home for the weekend at 8pm on Friday and tells them that he'll see them on Monday. They let McGee leave before them, both pretending to still be running through potential matches on license plates. Once he has left the bullpen, Tony makes eye contact with her.

“Are you really still running through your list of partial matches?” he asks her.

She smiles at him and begins packing up her things. “No. Are you?”

“No.” He grins at her and shuts down his computer.

~

They keep their evolved relationship out of the office, and for the most part, out of the work week. When they work weekends, they shoot pained looks at each other, but no one thinks it out of the ordinary because they had always done that. Only they know that those looks now have deeper meaning. Like  _ we can’t spend the whole day snuggling on the couch watching movies _ , his preferred method of spending a Saturday. Or, if it is nice out,  _ we can’t spend the day hiking that trail I told you about _ , her preferred method of spending a Sunday.

(They have a long running argument about which activity expends more calories. She says it is obviously the hiking, but he counters that snuggling on the couch almost always leads to lots and lots of sex, which also consumes calories. The debate is never resolved.)

Gibbs begins threatening to assign Tony to be agent afloat again, and Tony takes this as evidence that he knows. She tells him he is being paranoid until Gibbs begins giving her pointed looks and she joins Tony in the paranoia.

McGee mostly looks puzzled and occasionally thoughtful when he witnesses these interactions. He decides that ignorance is bliss and doesn’t inquire.

~

The first time they break their unspoken “non-working weekends only” rule is when she receives word that Michael Rivkin is dead. The team is in between cases so they are at their desks doing the usual paperwork or, in Tony’s case, playing solitaire. Gibbs is in MTAC with Director Vance.

At noon, as the team is arguing good-naturedly about where to order lunch, Gibbs emerges from MTAC and, from upstairs, catches Ziva’s eye and signals for her to join him. They go into the Director’s office, where Vance breaks the news.

Rivkin was sent to take down the terrorist organization. In Somalia. Saleem Ulman, the leader, killed him, but not before Rivkin fatally wounded him in return. Eli David calls the mission a success, although he regrets the loss of Rivkin.

Vance and Gibbs explain all this to her with unusual gentleness. Her walls go up automatically and she nods to them, thanks them as if they just told her that a stranger had died. Michael Rivkin was a stranger to her. In a non-stranger way.

She goes back to the bullpen, sits down at her desk, and stares at her computer screen. Tony notices the change in her demeanor immediately but something on her face tells him to proceed carefully. He goes so far as to text her, as discreetly as possible,  _ everything okay? _

She does not respond and says nothing for the rest of the day. Gibbs sends them home at 5pm, a ridiculously early time by their standards. As he does so, he gives Tony a pointed look and a barely perceptible nod toward the still-silent Ziva.

She is gone from the bullpen and pulling out of the parking lot before Tony can make it out of the office, but as he is getting into his car, he gets a text message.  _ I do not want to be alone tonight _ .

(Even in text messages, she doesn’t use contractions and he loves that about her.)

He drives over to her place, where she gives a terse explanation of what had happened. Unsure of what to say, he wraps his arms around her and holds her for a long time. He makes chicken soup from a can and makes her eat it. 

They get into her bed, fully clothed, above the covers, at an early hour. She lays on her side, facing away from him, and he isn’t sure if he should touch her, but then she reaches back for him and draws his arm around her, holds on to his hand with both of hers. 

He instinctively knows that she is feeling more guilty than sad, and in his mind, Jeanne Benoit’s hurt and bewildered face appears, and he understands. They lay there for hours, neither sleeping, the only sound in the room their quiet breathing. 

She clings to him like she is in an ocean, unable to swim, and he is a lifeboat.

~

One day in the future, she finds herself becoming increasingly tired and fighting back nausea throughout the day. Tony shoots her concerned looks but she shrugs it off as the flu, which she gets every year. “It is the season,” she explains when they are alone in the elevator.

One morning, as she sits at her desk, stifling yawns and looking particularly green, Gibbs drops a rectangular box onto her desk without pausing. A pregnancy test. Her eyes dart to Gibbs, who isn’t looking at her, then to Tony, who is. They exchange panic-riddled glances before she shoves the box into her purse. 

That night, they sit on her couch, staring silently at the pregnancy test sitting in front of them on its wrapper. The display clearly states  _ pregnant, 3-4 weeks _ .

~

“I have to tell my father,” she says, her throat sandpaper dry. “He will terminate my liaison position and recall me to Tel Aviv.”

He grips her hand, heart thudding in his throat, and tries to wrap his head around this development. They are careful. Two types of birth control careful. And yet, somehow, they created life. 

“We’ll figure it out,” he says.

Haltingly, she suggests an alternative. They and Gibbs are the only ones who know. This is the US, there is no need for a committee as there is in Israel. He starts feeling a little queasy, but says that he will support whatever decision she decides to make.

The next day, she makes an appointment with a clinic for that Saturday. 

On Thursday, the Director calls her into his office and informs her that the nature of her liaison position has changed. She is now needed as an intelligence officer working the Middle East. It has been cleared with her father. 

The Director gives her the smallest of smiles and she blinks, thanks him. She walks out of the office feeling like a huge burden has been lifted.

She calls the clinic back that afternoon and cancels the appointment, holding tightly onto Tony’s hand as they stand in the elevator, bathed in the emergency blue lights.

~

Her new job doesn’t give her the same rush of adrenaline, and she misses working with Tony, but at least they are in the same office, and they see each other in the evenings if neither are working. The work is complex and nuanced, and over time, she finds herself enjoying it. A lot of her time is spent in MTAC, briefing agents overseas.

The nausea thankfully abates before the end of her first trimester, although the exhaustion is a constant struggle. She continues her morning runs, despite Tony’s dubious looks. Triumphantly, she emails him article after article, explaining the benefits of continuing to work out during pregnancy. 

He asks once whether they should get married. The look she gives him is so comical that he would have laughed if he wasn’t half serious. She pats his cheek and tells him that she is not ready to take that step, but moving in together might not be such a bad idea.

They find a two bedroom apartment and move in together. Despite her protests, he refuses to let her carry anything larger than a duffel bag.

Although they never formally announce their new status as impending parents, just the way they never announced their dating status, Abby has a constant cat-that-ate-the-canary grin and it is obvious that both she and McGee know. Ducky shares various pregnancy anecdotes, and it is clear that their secret is definitely not a secret.

She doesn’t tell her father, although she is certain that his spies have told him about both her relationship with her former field partner and her changing body shape. She is ready for his angry phone call, but it never comes. In fact, he doesn’t call her at all. 

She finds that it doesn’t bother her as much as it probably should.

~

One evening, when her belly is so big that she can no longer see her feet when she stands, she sits on the couch with Tony. The tv is on, but neither are watching. Instead, they are looking at her midsection, waiting.

Suddenly, she says, “Okay, now!”

And she watches his eyes get round as the baby, a girl, runs her heel across Ziva’s belly, making it move. He puts his hand on her stomach and feels the baby kick him.

“A ninja, just like her mother,” he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 5000+ words later, I would like to thank you for reading this ridiculously long chapter. 
> 
> The pregnancy thing was not where I had planned to go with this, but sometimes things just happen.


End file.
